


Stars Across Your Skin

by andabatae



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Photographer, Angst, Anonymous Messaging, Art Director Rey, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fingering, Hate to Love, Idiots in Love, Loneliness, Misunderstandings, Orgasm, Photographer Ben Solo, Photography, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Smut, Touch-Starved, fashion - Freeform, idiots to lovers, photoshoot, reddit, sexy photoshoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29764038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andabatae/pseuds/andabatae
Summary: Ben Solo is the most insufferable photographer that art director Rey has ever worked with. He's rude, he won't take direction, and he claims she doesn't understand the emotional core of their work. Worse, he makes her feel things she'd rather not. After a lifetime of loneliness, Rey's so starved for touch it hurts, but she can't possibly want to be touched by notorious asshole Ben Solo... right?Seeking support, Rey turns to r/touchstarved, where she forms an odd friendship with KyloRen, a man just as lonely as she is.
Relationships: Finn/Rose Tico, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 183
Kudos: 502
Collections: Ijustfellintothissendhelp





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AuroraNoirInStardust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNoirInStardust/gifts).



> I have 3 chapters drafted so far, which is a new experience for this chronic improviser. The update schedule is... jk lolol I'll post them at random times, as is tradition. Chapter count is... ???? Probably not 5, though...
> 
> This is for all the lonely people. And for Ali, who loves angst ❤️

> I’m so fucking lonely.

The words stood out, black marks on a white background that echoed in Rey’s soul. She stared at them, feeling the urge to cry.

It was the first post she’d clicked on in r/TouchStarved, and already she was a mess. She could still click away and try not to indulge this hungry, needy part of herself…

The breath shuddered out of her as she reached for her wine glass. “Chardonnay pairs well with being a desperate loser,” she said out loud, as if there was anyone around to listen.

There never was.

Since Rose and Finn had moved away two years ago, Rey had been alone. She’d been alone for most of her life, but for some reason it felt worse now. Maybe because she’d gotten used to casual affection. Finn’s bear hugs, the gentle press of Rose’s head against her shoulder as they watched a movie together. It had astounded Rey at first, how casual Rose and Finn were about touching other people, but soon she’d become an addict.

And then, like all good things, that connection had been taken away.

Rey still talked to Rose and Finn via phone and Zoom, of course, but it wasn’t the same. She supposed she could have filled the void with online dating, and she’d tried, at first, but her body and heart didn’t work that way. She didn’t want a stranger touching her, didn’t like the expectations that came with even the most casual contact. Those touches weren’t given out of care, anyway: they were solely a means to an end. Rey couldn’t relax, couldn’t trust, couldn’t fall into the rhythms that came so naturally to everyone else. She was awkward on first dates and a downright disaster on second dates, and at some point, she’d given up.

She’d flung herself into work then, becoming a successful art director for elite fashion magazines, but part of her was withering away.

It didn’t help that the photographer she was currently working with, Ben Solo, was a hardass with a temper and no understanding of human emotion. To survive the pressure cooker of work, she’d had to numb herself to more vulnerable feelings. As a result, the weak, needy parts of her tended to burst out all at once, especially when wine was involved.

> KyloRen: I’m so fucking lonely. I work too hard, and I suck with people. I haven’t dated since my sort-of high school girlfriend. I haven’t had sex since some shitty college hookup. I’ve tried to date, but nothing feels right, and the only person I want to be with I can’t have. I need to be touched so badly, but most people repulse me or make me anxious, and the ones that seem to like me are just pretending because of what I can do for them. It’s been years of no contact past handshakes. Are some people destined to be alone?

The post tore at Rey’s heart, because it described everything she felt. There weren’t any comments on KyloRen’s post, so she typed one up, the wine making her brave.

> DesertFlower: Same. I’m like… crying into my wine because of how much this resonates with me. I’ve tried online dating, but I don’t even necessarily want sex, even though I do want that in theory? I just need a good fucking snuggle with someone safe, but no one is safe, and there are always expectations. Like no one wants to touch me unless I’m putting out right away, ya know? And like… most people don’t even want that from me. I’m awkward and way too wary and I can’t get over my fucking hangups. Basically, I suck.

She submitted the comment before she could psyche herself out by double- or triple-checking the grammar. If she did that, she’d obsess over every word, and then she would never send it. Rey poured a second glass of wine, then lost herself in America’s Next Top Model reruns. Her phone buzzed two hours later, and she stirred from her half-asleep stupor on the couch. She’d received a message on Reddit.

“Oh, no,” Rey muttered, dreading what she might find when she opened whatever KyloRen had sent her. “It’s probably a dick pic.”

In her experience, Reddit DMs were never good. Nevertheless, she was curious, so she tapped on the message.

> KyloRen: Hey. Thanks for commenting. I’m sorry your life sucks, too. And I get what you mean - I’d fucking love to have sex again someday, but at this point, literally any touch will do. But I haven’t seen my parents in years, and I don’t have friends outside work, and my work friends don’t really count. All we do is drink and bitch about work. I can’t remember the last hug I got, much less the last snuggle. It seems so easy for other people. There should be an app for lonely people to just touch each other.

Rey’s chest felt tight at reading words that could have been typed by her. She rubbed her eyes to clear the haze of sleepiness, then typed a response back.

> DesertFlower: Ugh I’d love an app like that. But honestly, I wouldn’t want some stranger to touch me. Ya know? Like… I’d always be wondering what they want. If they actually care about me. (Which, of course, they wouldn’t.) If any kind of contact would do, I’d just challenge everyone to a thumb wrestling match. But the kind of contact I want is deeper than that.

He responded almost immediately.

> KyloRen: I totally understand. Most people make me uncomfortable, and I can’t imagine letting some random person hold me. Not that any random person would want to. But yeah, I know exactly what you mean. There’s a kind of touch that comes from people actually caring about you - or at least, so I’ve been told. That’s what I want.

Rey felt the urge to cry again, but bitter life experience had taught her there was no point in tears. Whenever she’d cried as a child, her foster father had mocked her for being weak. Rey wasn’t weak, so now she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, refusing to let a single tear out.

When her emotions were finally under control again, she sent KyloRen a message.

> DesertFlower: No one has ever cared about me. That’s not hyperbole; I was literally abandoned in a dumpster by my parents, then raised by a horrible foster father. It’s a miracle I have a job and an apartment of my own. I try to live a normal life, but even though I have work “friends,” no one really knows me.

There was something freeing about dumping her troubles on a complete stranger. She’d never have to see his pity, never have to feel the shame of sharing her vulnerabilities with someone who actually knew her. In Rey’s experience, when people figured out your vulnerabilities, they did everything in their power to hurt you.

> KyloRen: Shit. I can’t compete with dumpster abandonment.

Rey choked on a laugh, then pressed her fingers hard into her eyes, trying to stop the burning of unshed tears. She hadn’t even confessed this part of her past to Rose or Finn, but for some reason, she felt okay sharing it with this stranger.

> DesertFlower: There are lots of ways to be lonely.
> 
> KyloRen: Isn’t that the truth.
> 
> KyloRen: But for real, I feel like a precious little bitch now. I grew up rich, and sure, my parents weren’t really there, but I wasn’t raised in a fucking dumpster.

This time Rey did laugh.

> DesertFlower: I wasn’t raised in the dumpster. That would be pretty fucked up.
> 
> KyloRen: But you started there. I started with a silver spoon, whatever that fucking idiom means. My parents might not like me, but I’ve never suffered for money.

Rey bit her lip. She despised the mega-rich on principle--it was hard not to, when the government and lobbyists were full of millionaires whose only priority was protecting their wealth--but KyloRen’s pain was palpable. He had money, but no love.

Rey had grown up with no money and no love, but she suspected no love had been the most devastating issue. It still was, according to her therapist. Rose and Finn were good friends, but as time passed, their calls had grown less frequent, and Rey knew she wasn’t a priority in their lives, anyway.

She got it. She totally got it. Rose and Finn had found completion in each other. Why should they worry about their single friend?

> DesertFlower: I am fully in the ‘eat the rich’ camp, but I totally get how you feel, and it’s not your fault you were born rich. I want to punch anyone who neglected you as a child.

The TV was still playing America’s Next Top Model, but Rey’s eyes were glued to her phone. This was the most real connection she’d felt with anyone in ages. Just one more sign of how pathetic she was, she supposed. If no one in her life valued her, at least this stranger might for a few minutes.

After that, he would forget her. People always forgot her. Maybe they were all better off for it.

> Kylo Ren: I want to punch your parents.
> 
> Kylo Ren: Yikes. Am I allowed to say that? Sorry, I’m told I’m a little intense.

Rey huffed.

> DesertFlower: Trust me, it’s nothing I haven’t thought before.

She glanced at the clock, then cursed. It was after midnight, and she had to be up for a shoot in 5 hours.

> DesertFlower: I need to go to sleep, but thank you for the talk.

She bit her lip. Maybe it was pathetic to get comfort from a complete stranger, but this was the closest to a real connection she’d felt in years.

> DesertFlower: Maybe we can chat again sometime?
> 
> KyloRen: Sure. It’s refreshing talking to someone who doesn’t know what an asshole I am.
> 
> DesertFlower: You don’t seem like an asshole to me.
> 
> KyloRen: I’ll be sure to put the endorsement on my resume.
> 
> KyloRen: Goodnight, DesertFlower.
> 
> DesertFlower: Goodnight, KyloRen.

#

“No,” Rey said as the shutter clicked. “The angle’s all wrong.”

Ben Solo looked up from where he crouched, camera pointed at a pair of models. His long face held a ferocious scowl. “Excuse me?”

His poisonous tone promised a fight, but Rey wasn’t willing to compromise on her vision. “The angle,” Rey said, whipping out her notebook to show him the sketch she’d made of this tableau. “See? It’s supposed to be head-on.”

The two models were frozen in position, the man’s arm around the woman’s waist, her head tipped up towards his. They were dressed in the latest fashions from the House of Holdo, the draping clothing fluttering in the breeze from an industrial fan. Around them was a bower of flowers, and the lighting held the golden intimacy of late afternoon.

“Am I supposed to care about your scribbles?” Ben snapped.

“I’m the art director,” Rey shot back, “so yes, you are.”

Her _scribbles_ were actually intricate sketches of how she imagined each scene, complete with sweeps of watercolor. This one was one of her favorites: the woman’s dress was a gorgeous fall of yellow blending into pink, then purple, and her silver armbands and collar gleamed in the warm light. In contrast, the man wore a structured black suit. Darkness and light, night and day. 

The sketch was even better when made reality. The models were excellent, and the way they held each other like they wanted to fall into each other brought forth an aching longing in Rey’s chest. No one had ever looked at her the way Poe looked at Kaydel, and even knowing it was an act didn’t diminish its impact.

Ben pushed to his feet, and one of the PAs backed up a few steps. Rey held her ground, lifting her chin. Ben towered over her, but she refused to be cowed by him.

“May I remind you,” he said, “that I am a multi-award-winning photographer who is sought after worldwide?”

This was why she hated Ben Solo. Well, part of why she hated him. He was so goddamned certain of his skill that he refused to listen to other points of view. And sure, his photographs were good. Breathtaking, even. But this wasn’t his home studio: this was a collaboration that needed to reflect the ethos, the very soul, of the House of Holdo, and Rey was the person who had done the research.

“May I remind you,” she said, stepping closer to him, “that I am the art director? You didn’t seem to understand that the first fifty times, but maybe the fifty-first is the charm.”

His nostrils flared. For a few moments, they just stared each other down, both breathing heavily. Rey was distantly aware of the crew making themselves scarce, though the models had no option to flee.

This close to him, Rey was far too aware of the breadth of his chest and the way his muscles strained his black T-shirt. He wore black jeans, too, and even his hair was black, as if he had emerged from the womb ready to claim the title of Prince of Darkness.

“You,” Ben gritted out, “are a menace to creativity.”

Rey was going to take that as a victory. “Noted,” she said. “Now let’s try the shot from a different angle.” She turned her back on him and headed towards the models. She tweaked the drape of Kaydel’s skirt, then smoothed a lock of the Poe’s hair. The sound of the shutter came from behind her, and she scowled over her shoulder. “I’m not the talent,” she snapped.

Ben took another picture. “Then get out of the way.”

Rey rolled her eyes, and Kaydel gave her a sympathetic look. Rey walked back towards her workstation, too aware of the continued clicks of the shutter as Ben kept photographing. Well, if he wanted to sift through even more photos to find a good shot, that was on him.

The thought of Ben having photos of her made her itchy. He’d probably tried to capture her least flattering angles. Rey wasn’t overly vain, but for some reason the idea bothered her. Maybe it was because Ben didn’t seem to have any bad angles. No, all that talent, ego, and temper had to be packaged up in a body that was, quite frankly, sinful. When Rey had first seen Ben, his height, biceps, and intense hazel eyes had sent a shiver through her.

Of course, then he’d opened his--stupidly sensual--mouth, and it had all been downhill from there.

The shoot progressed along similar lines for hours. Rey gave guidance, Ben resisted. Ben ordered the models around brusquely, and Rey objected, Whenever they broke to look at the photos, they bickered over which shots were the most flattering and which best represented The House of Holdo.

During one argument, Ben drove his hands through his hair. “You’re just… holding on!” he said. “You’re such a control freak. You want everything to match your silly little sketches, and you can’t see that it would be better if you just let me take the shot.”

 _“I’m_ a control freak?” Rey felt hot all over, and her hands trembled with the force of her anger. “What about you? You refuse to see this as a collaboration--”

“Because I’m the artist,” he snapped. “You’re nothing.”

She recoiled. To her mortification, her eyes grew damp. It was an echo of a sentiment she’d heard far too often in her life and her career. “Fuck off,” she choked out.

Ben Solo’s eyes widened, and she saw the “oh shit” moment when he realized exactly what he’d just said. “I didn’t mean it like that--”

“Yeah, you did,” Rey said, turning so he wouldn’t see tears welling. She pressed her knuckles into her eyes. Crying accomplished nothing; it would just make her look weak.

“You’re not nothing,” he said. “You’re just--I got mad, all right? I’m an asshole.”

She scoffed. “That’s not a personality trait. That’s a choice.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Rey could hear whispers from the assistants, stylists, and onlookers ringing the room. Her pride stung, so she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and turned to face Ben again. “Let’s get on with it,” she said.

His mouth opened and closed a few times. Finally, he nodded.

The rest of the shoot was quieter, if not easier. While Ben took her direction-- _some_ of the time--the tension between them was palpable. Several times, Rey turned to find him staring at her with an inscrutable look. Other times, he would start to argue, then bite into his lower lip as if stifling the words that wanted to erupt. _Just fucking say it!_ she wanted to scream, but that wouldn’t be productive for the shoot.

The next time he bit his lip, she had a graphic vision of herself biting it, instead. Her teeth sinking into that stupid lip, his stupid blood on her tongue, his stupid groan in her mouth.

Rey squeezed her pencil so hard it snapped. Fuck, she was messed up in the head. So lonely and broken that even her hatred for Ben Solo sometimes took on elements of brutal longing. Thankfully, there were plenty of other things to focus on than Ben’s mouth or her own malfunctioning brain, and Rey threw herself into work.

Hours later, she straightened from where she’d bent over a monitor, satisfied that there were more than enough good shots to pick from. “That’s a wrap!” she called out. “Good work, everyone.” As the room burst into a flurry of activity, she stretched, then massaged her lower back. She was sore from standing, pacing, crouching, and bending as she’d examined every inch of the scene.

She heard a click and turned her head just in time to see Ben lowering his camera. “Did you just take a picture of me?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “I like getting backstage photos for each shoot. I put them on my website.”

She hadn’t noticed him taking any other backstage photos--other than the ones when she’d been adjusting the models--but she didn’t feel like arguing, so she let it go, instead focusing on helping dismantle the set and clean up.

“Next shoot is bright and early tomorrow,” she told the remaining assistants after things had been set to rights. “I’ll bring coffee.”

They smiled and waved at her before leaving. Rey sagged back against the wall and closed her eyes, grateful to have peace at last.

“When are we going to review the shots?”

She jumped at Ben’s voice, her eyes flying open. He was standing nearby, hands on his hips and a brooding look on his face. “I thought you were gone,” she said.

He gestured at the table where his laptop and camera sat. “I like to go through the shots immediately afterwards, while the mood is fresh. I’ll come up with a shortlist, but I’ve been informed”--he scowled--”that you get final approval.”

“I do,” she said, taking a certain amount of petty glee from the fact. She checked her watch. There were a few hours left before the end of the day, but she still had work to do in the office. “I’d like to review after the next shoot is done,” she said. “That way we can start to get a sense of narrative cohesion.”

He nodded curtly, then turned and stalked back to his laptop.

Rey rolled her eyes, then gathered up her things. Ben was already clicking through shots, his attention fixated on the monitor. It was clear he had no use for her anymore.

She paused in the doorway to rummage through her purse for her phone. When she looked back over her shoulder, she found Ben staring intently--not at the laptop, but at her.

Whatever. He was just being his usual challenging self, and she didn’t have time for another pissing contest. Rey tore her eyes away from his and made her escape.

#

Rey was two glasses of wine deep on her couch when she opened the Reddit app on her phone.

> DesertFlower: hey

An hour later, she got a response.

> KyloRen: Hey.
> 
> DesertFlower: Do you ever have days that feel like an entire year?
> 
> KyloRen: All the time.
> 
> KyloRen: Rough day at the office?

Rey snorted.

> DesertFlower: You could say that. I work with this real prick.
> 
> KyloRen: Ah.
> 
> DesertFlower: How was your day?
> 
> KyloRen: I was a real prick.

Rey laughed. He couldn’t have been as bad as Ben Solo, and besides, true pricks were rarely self-aware of their prickishness.

> DesertFlower: Noooo
> 
> KyloRen: I mean, I don’t want to be a prick. Not all the time, anyway. Some people just bring it out of me.
> 
> DesertFlower: Maybe they had it coming.
> 
> KyloRen: Probably not.

Rey reached for her wine glass and took a sip. This one was a cabernet, though not a good one. Not that she’d be able to identify good wine versus bad wine, but Finn had been horrified to learn she never spent more than $10 on a bottle. Though he’d grown up nearly as rough as Rey had, he had a good job now, and Rose had encouraged him to relax and treat himself sometimes.

The thought of Finn made her heart ache. He and Rose were on a European vacation, so she wouldn’t have been able to text him even if she’d wanted to. And even though she missed him, she didn’t want to subject him to her angst and loneliness. Not when his life was going so well.

KyloRen was clearly miserable, too, and not knowing who he was was strangely freeing. She could tell him her secrets with no repercussions. 

With the wine mellowing her out, she had the courage to ask something she’d been wondering about since she’d seen his first post.

> DesertFlower: You said in your post that you can’t be with the person you want. What’s stopping you?
> 
> KyloRen: She hates me.

Rey winced.

> DesertFlower: Yeah, that’ll do it.
> 
> DesertFlower: Maybe she’s just covering up unfulfilled sexual tension...?
> 
> KyloRen: Trust me, the only unfulfilled sexual tension is on my part.
> 
> KyloRen: It’s fine. I’ve never been great with women. She could get anyone she wants-why would she pick me?

The thought made Rey sad. She didn’t know KyloRen, but she felt protective of him anyway. He was her only confidant.

Fuck, that thought hurt worse.

> DesertFlower: I’m sorry. I know what being lonely feels like.
> 
> DesertFlower: But you’re never alone on the internet, right?
> 
> KyloRen: Sure, ones and zeroes are a real substitute for human affection.
> 
> KyloRen: Sorry. I’m in a bad mood.
> 
> DesertFlower: Guess we both had a shite day.
> 
> DesertFlower: I’m just going to let this wine lull me into a state of relaxation.
> 
> KyloRen: Whiskey for me.

Rey lifted her glass to an imaginary companion.

> DesertFlower: Cheers!
> 
> KyloRen: Not sure what we’re toasting...
> 
> DesertFlower: Being lonely losers?
> 
> KyloRen: Cheers, then.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Rey stood outside a mansion in the predawn, huddled into her battered brown jacket and warming her hands on a cup of coffee. The scene she’d envisioned required the pure light of sunrise, which meant they’d had to be onsite at an ungodly hour.

The models were in place, seated at a wrought-iron table decorated with a spray of exotic blooms. Kaydel’s dress was yellow and off-the-shoulder, with fluttering sleeves and a corset bodice dotted with embroidered purple flowers. Amilyn Holdo was known for stark contrasts as a designer, and true to her aesthetic, the male model, Poe, wore a wide-shouldered, structured black tunic over a deep brown shirt with loose sleeves. It was a marriage of light and dark once again, which was why Rey had focused on moments of transition for the lighting: the gold of afternoon sliding into evening for yesterday’s shoot, with today’s highlighting the fresh glow of dawn.

The night sky was graying, with a sliver of orange rising over the horizon. Rey tapped her foot, feeling anxious. Everything was in place… except for Ben Solo.

He finally showed up right when Rey was about to start snapping photos on her smartphone. “Where were you?” she demanded as he set his equipment bag down on the table where a laptop and monitor were already set up.

“Asleep,” he said, looking not the slightest bit repentant as he assembled his camera. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was messy. He was wearing black, of course: black jeans and a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt. Black like his soul… if he actually had one.

“You should have been here an hour ago with the rest of us,” Rey said.

“Why? I’m here to shoot photos, not watch models get dressed.” He raised his camera and took a test shot.

They were two minutes into their day together, and Rey already wanted to strangle him. “I was freaking out. I thought you weren’t going to show up.”

“Why?” he asked. “You hired me to do a job.”

“Because—” Rey broke off when he snapped a picture of her face. “Why are you taking pictures of me?”

He shrugged. “You look funny when you’re mad.”

Rey’s jaw dropped. “Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?”

“The best art springs from passion,” he said. “You have to feel something real as a creator.”

The word ‘passion’ rolling from his plush lips made her skin prickle. This time when he tried to take a photo of her, Rey covered the lens with her palm. “Somehow I doubt rage is the best emotion to evoke during a photoshoot celebrating a love story,” she said.

“Is it really?” he asked, hazel eyes flicking between her own. He chewed his bottom lip, and Rey’s gaze briefly dropped to his mouth before she caught herself.

“What?” she asked, feeling like she’d lost the plot.

“A love story.”

Rey squeezed her coffee so hard, the lid popped off. “You didn’t read the brief.” The brief she’d spent hours on, detailing every element of the photoshoot from narrative to design. “Oh, my god, you didn’t even read the brief!” She was going to have heart palpitations.

“Oh, I read it,” Ben said. He focused on the models, taking a few more shots. “I just disagree with it.”

“That is  _ not  _ your job,” Rey snapped.

“What is my job?” he asked as he kept taking photos. The sun broke over the horizon, painting the low clouds with rose-gold.

“To shut up and take pictures.”

He snorted. “You could have picked any photographer off the street if that was all you wanted. You paid for Ben Solo. This is what you get.”

It infuriated her that he was right. There was a magic to his photos that no one else could replicate. The images seemed alive, the subjects caught in moments of raw emotion that made the viewer build stories in their head. The energy in his work and the way he exquisitely built tension between elements of his photos was why she’d hand-picked him for this assignment.

Of course, that was before she’d known what a nightmare he was to work with. At their first meeting a month ago to discuss the shoot, she’d quickly realized he was a difficult man. Still, she’d thought at the time, how bad could he be?

Oh, how quickly she’d learned.

Thank God there were only three images to capture in this spread. They were shooting out of order: today’s shoot symbolized the lovers meeting, the previous day’s shoot represented the bloom of first love, and the final shoot—representing midnight—would be the release of passion. That one would happen several nights from now, giving everyone time to rest up in advance.

“They’re too stiff,” Ben said.

Rey tore her attention away from his profile to look at the models. They sat facing each other, hands nearly touching on the tabletop. She tilted her head. “They look fine to me.”

“There’s no energy to it.” He called out to Poe and Kaydel. “I want you to move for me. Start out leaning back in your chairs, then lean towards each other.”

The models did as asked, and Ben snapped a few photos. Then he beckoned Rey over to the monitor. “See the difference?” he asked, toggling between two images.

The first shot was pretty, but the second was far better. Though the models were in nearly identical positions, there was an energy to their bodies. A moment of suspended movement—the second between dreaming of a kiss and reaching out to claim one. “You’re right,” she said, trailing her fingers over the screen to trace the subtle arch of Kaydel’s spine.

She turned her head to find him looking at her with an odd expression. “Never thought I’d hear that from you,” he said.

They were standing very close, she realized. Close enough that she could feel the subtle warmth emanating from him. He smelled like coffee and something woodsy and spicy that made her want to suck in a deep breath. “Well, I’m not unreasonable,” she said, struggling to come up with words. Her skin was starting to ache with the too-familiar desire to be touched.

He laughed, and the spell was broken. “You are absolutely unreasonable,” he said, turning back towards the scene.

Rey scowled. Right. Asshole. “Takes one to know one.”

He shrugged. “Guilty as charged.”

She moved away, needing to put space between them. Her skin still felt too-tight, and she cursed herself for the reaction. It wasn’t  _ him _ she wanted. She would have reacted to anyone the same way.

Rey focused on the work, repositioning the models, calling for slight corrections to hair and wardrobe. Ben moved around the shoot like a wraith, a tall, silent shadow whose finger worked relentlessly at the shutter button. Sometimes he called out curt instructions to the models, getting them to shift in subtle ways so he could capture those moments of suspended action. Rey’s notebook was burning a hole in her back pocket, and she itched with the desire to show him her sketches again, but she bit her tongue and let him work. The light would go fast, and they couldn’t waste more time on arguing.

Her restraint finally broke when he ordered Poe to look away from Kaydel while Kaydel leaned in. She pulled the notebook out, flipping to the sketch. “No, no,” she said. “They have to look besotted. See?”

He ignored her and kept taking photos. “Now try looking over her shoulder,” he called out. “Like you’re staring at the inevitable end in the distance.”

“Stop ignoring me,” Rey said. When he didn’t respond, she tapped his shoulder. “Excuse me!”

To her surprise, she saw a shiver race over his massive frame. He turned to face her. “What?” he asked. “We don’t have any time to waste.”

“It’s a love story,” Rey repeated. “He shouldn’t be thinking about any inevitable ends.”

“It’s more complicated than that.” He kept moving as he talked, taking photos from various angles, and Rey was forced to follow. “The light and dark, the meeting of night and day… this isn’t an easy sort of love. There’s an edge underneath it, something just a little wrong.” Rey started to argue, but Ben cut her off. “It’s in the attire,” he said. “Her flowing pastels, his black leather. They don’t belong together, and they both know it, but they can’t resist the pull.”

Rey looked at the models, trying to see the scene through his eyes. Now that she considered that approach, there was something a bit… off about the pairing of outfits Amilyn Holdo had insisted on. The black leather over a coarse brown shirt was rough compared to the gauzy yellow dress. The corset gave an edge to the dress, though, the boning an echo of the tunic’s sharp outline. Complementary, in a way, but Ben was right: they didn’t belong together.

For some reason, Rey’s eyes grew damp. She turned away and dug her knuckles into her eyes. Seriously, twice in two days? She wasn’t a crier, and especially not in front of Ben Solo.

“What is it?” His voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

Rey shook her head. “Nothing.”

“This is about emotion,” Ben said. “What the models are feeling, what we feel creating it, what the viewers will feel looking at it. You have to let it flow through you if you want to create art.”

She took a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face before turning around. “That explains your temper tantrums,” she said, ignoring the disquieting softness in his eyes. “But I’m not the photographer, so my emotional input is hardly required.”

His expression shifted back into a scowl. “Suit yourself. At least one of us has vision.”

Rey bit her lip so hard she thought it might bleed. The light was shifting rapidly—they only had minutes left.

She spent those minutes clutching her sketchpad tightly, watching as Ben twisted the narrative she’d crafted so lovingly. Poe and Kaydel were excellent, building a believable tension between them. As Kaydel looked over her shoulder with haunted eyes while Poe kissed her fingers, Rey could see it, too. The inevitable end.

That was life, wasn’t it? Things slipped through your fingers: time, love, possessions, people. A long letting-go.

Rey realized everyone was staring at her, from the models to the makeup artists. “What?” she asked, surfacing from her grim thoughts.

Ben cleared his throat. “I said, the light’s changed too much.”

“Right.” Rey clapped her hands. “Then that’s a wrap.”

The hushed silence that had fallen over the set broke, and people started chattering and bustling around. Kaydel and Poe were both grinning, and Rey felt an odd sense of detachment from the scene. To everyone else, this was just a fun project or a way to make money. None of them felt the same aching hollowness that filled her chest.

Ben was still watching her. She forced a smile again. “Well, I’m sure you’re eager to get away from here—”

“No,” he said.

She blinked at him. “What?”

He stalked towards her, stopping within arms’ reach. He filled her vision: big and strong, dark and magnetic. “Don’t cover it up.”

She was even more confused. “Cover up what?”

“The sadness.”

She stiffened. “I’m not sad.”

“It’s not a crime,” he said. “This is the point of art.”

“What’s there to be sad about?” Rey asked. “It’s a beautiful morning and we’re all gainfully employed.”

His eyes seemed darker, softer. Was he feeling it, too? This strange grief over something that had never even existed?

Rey didn’t want to have anything in common with Ben Solo, so she ignored the look in his eyes. “I need to help clean up,” she said, turning away from him.

His hand wrapped around her upper arm. “Wait.”

Rey stilled, sucking in a shocked breath. Even through her jacket, she could feel the warmth of his skin. His fingers pressed into her, five spots of delicious pressure. He was touching her. Someone was  _ touching _ her.

She swayed on her feet, and Ben’s grip tightened. “Just… let me show you,” he said. “How I work. What…” He cleared his throat. “What letting go does for a work of art.”

“You just showed me,” she said, not comprehending his meaning. Little tremors raced through her as the pleasure center of her brain sparked at the touch. He was so solid and real. His touch made Rey feel real, too.

She couldn’t feel this way about Ben Solo, but she was helpless. Drowning in the intensity. The pleasure of being touched felt almost like pain to her hypersensitized skin, and she couldn’t help but wonder how the rest of her body would feel pressed against him.

“Come to my studio,” Ben said. His fingers flexed on her bicep a few times, the rhythmic movement almost like stroking. “Let me show you my photographs.”

“I’ve seen your photographs,” Rey said breathlessly. “As you delight in reminding me, you are a world-famous photographer.”

He shook his head. “Not the famous photos. Come see my private collection.”

Rey should go to the office. She should work on her sketches and start planning for the next spread. Barring that, she should go work out at the gym or do something else productive.

But her breath was coming fast, and a wave of tingling warmth was spreading from where he touched her, and Rey knew she wasn’t going to do any of those things. “All right,” she said.

Ben’s mouth tipped up on one side. It was the closest to a genuine smile she’d ever seen from him. “Good,” he said. His fingers trailed over her arm as he released her. “I’ll email you the address. Give me a few hours to review these photos, though?”

Rey licked her lips. “All right,” she said again.

“Good.” Ben was apparently repeating himself, too. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Ben shifted from foot to foot. He hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just… be going, then.”

Rey nodded, unable to string together a coherent thought.

That ghost of a smile was still there as he backed away. “See you soon, Rey.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, the chapter count went up. I have no self-control.

> DesertFlower: Do you ever wonder if you’re actually attracted to someone or if you’re just desperate to be touched and anyone will do?
> 
> KyloRen: No.
> 
> KyloRen: I know exactly who I’m attracted to. I wouldn’t be able to transfer those feelings to anyone else, even if someone did touch me.

Rey bit her lip. She was currently seated at a coffeeshop, nerves thrumming as she waited for the rendezvous with Ben Solo.  


> DesertFlower: Oh.
> 
> KyloRen: Sounds like you have feelings for someone?
> 
> DesertFlower: I don’t know if it’s feelings…
> 
> KyloRen: Bullshit. It’s your emotions. You just have to be honest with yourself, otherwise what’s the point of feeling anything?

She snorted. It sounded like something Ben Solo might say. For such a grumpy jackass, he sure did like to lecture about The Importance of Emotion.

> DesertFlower: I don’t do well with emotional honesty.
> 
> KyloRen: Well, I can’t help you there. I suck at being honest with other people, but at least I’m honest with myself.

Rey rolled her eyes.

> DesertFlower: Very virtuous of you. Forget I asked.
> 
> KyloRen: No, wait
> 
> KyloRen: I’m not trying to judge you. 
> 
> KyloRen: Or maybe I am. I just get so frustrated when people can’t even look at themselves with clear eyes. Take me: I know I’m an asshole, and I know I have a temper and that no one likes being around me. I know who I want, and I also know she doesn’t want me. It doesn’t make me any happier, but at least I’m not wallowing in indecision.
> 
> DesertFlower: So now I’m wallowing?
> 
> DesertFlower: You have, like, zero context for this conversation

Rey was stung by the judgment, even more so because he... wasn’t entirely wrong. She hated Ben Solo, but there had been a definite flare of  _ something _ when he’d touched her. But if she was attracted to Ben Solo, what did that make her? A masochist? Some kind of starfucker drawn to his talent and intensity? Was she actually attracted, or was she just so lonely that anyone would do? But if anyone would do, why hadn’t she felt that same  _ something _ while adjusting Poe’s costume on set?

> KyloRen: Shit. Sorry. I just… the woman I want is like a locked box, and I guess it reminded me of that. I saw her today. She’s so prickly, and she has no problem fighting with me, but she’s clearly suppressing so much. I see it in hidden moments when she thinks I’m not looking. The way her eyes get sad or the way her posture shifts depending on who she’s with. I see her smile and laugh like she’s the happiest person in the world, and then she turns away from whoever she’s talking with and the expression instantly drops. It drives me fucking nuts, wondering what she’s thinking about, what she’s feeling. I want to unlock all of that, but she does nothing but snap at me and pretend everything is fine.

Rey rubbed her chest. He could have been describing her… if anyone actually liked her. Whatever Ben Solo felt about her, it certainly wasn’t attraction or respect or anything like what KyloRen felt for his mystery woman.

> DesertFlower: Okay, maybe you have some context. But what’s the point of opening up when nothing good will come of it?
> 
> KyloRen: How do you know nothing good will come of it?
> 
> DesertFlower: Good question, Mister She-Hates-Me-And-I’ll-Be-Alone-Forever.
> 
> KyloRen: Touche.

Rey sipped her chai latte, mulling over the oddity of the universe. KyloRen was a total stranger she’d messaged on a fluke, but she was talking to him like they were lifelong friends with no problems calling each other out.

> DesertFlower: It’s weird that we can talk like this. I feel like I’m looking in a broken mirror. Like, there’s so much that’s universal, but we have these oddly specific commonalities.
> 
> DesertFlower: Maybe that’s all lonely people, though.
> 
> KyloRen: Maybe.

Rey looked at the time on her phone, then winced. The further she’d gotten from her agreement with Ben Solo, the worse she’d felt about it. What was she thinking, going to his studio? He was just going to lecture her about the creative process, then leave her steaming mad.

> DesertFlower: I have to go. Thanks for the… pep talk? Judgment? Words of wisdom?
> 
> KyloRen: Fuck, definitely not words of wisdom. I’m a certified mess.
> 
> DesertFlower: We should have a club. Messes R Us.
> 
> KyloRen: Pretty small and depressing club.
> 
> KyloRen: But sure.

Rey smiled. In that moment, she felt a little less alone.

#

Rey’s palms were clammy as she stood outside Ben’s apartment building, gathering courage to ring the bell to his unit. She hadn’t known sweaty palms were an actual thing, but here she was, feeling nervous as a teenager at a school dance.

She didn’t have good memories of school dances, since she’d had to wear a dress two sizes too small and tennis shoes with holes in them, but whatever. Rey was an adult woman now with a career she loved, a few staple wardrobe items that had probably cost more than her childhood clothes combined, and her own apartment. She could go to Ben Solo’s studio without feeling like she was about to vomit from nerves.

Why was she so fucking nervous?

Her finger trembled as she pushed the button next to his number. Shortly afterwards, the lock buzzed to let her in.

Ben lived on the tenth floor. Not the penthouse, which she had almost expected, but this was a very fancy building downtown, so there probably wasn’t much of a difference. During the elevator ride up, Rey fussed with her hair and inspected her teeth in her compact mirror. Not that she needed to worry about mouth hygiene around Ben Solo—even if she occasionally fantasized about biting him—but he was always so well put together, and Rey was… haphazard at best. If she had to engage him in his territory, she might as well look good.

It was why she’d changed her outfit, too. Gone were the brown coat and loose jeans of the morning. Now she wore black slacks and a white button-up with a thin black bow at the neck. Professional and fashionable. Her black stilettos completed the aesthetic of _ “Artistic, but don’t fuck with me.” _

Ben was waiting for her in the doorway of his apartment. He wore the same black jeans and T-shirt from the morning—although she supposed they could be different ones, considering how monochromatic his wardrobe was—and without the leather jacket, she could see how the tight fabric clung to his pecs, shoulders, and biceps. “Maybe consider sizing up,” she muttered under her breath. If those sleeves were any tighter, his arms would probably fall off from lack of blood flow. 

His dark brows drew together. “What?”

“Nothing.” She was damned if she was going to tell him his shirt was nearly obscene. When he shifted his weight, she swore she could see the ripple of abs under the fabric. Of course he had abs. Just more evidence that the universe was fundamentally unfair.

He held the door open for her, and Rey squeezed past. The entryway opened up into a large living room with plush red carpet, black leather couches, and white walls covered in framed, poster-sized black-and-white photos. “So this is how Ben Solo, artiste extraordinaire, lives,” she said. An arched doorway led to a kitchen on the left, and she could see the gleam of stainless steel appliances against black counters. “Nice place.”

“Shoes off,” he barked.

Rey huffed in annoyance. Her stilettos were the only thing putting her remotely close to Ben’s prodigious height, and she didn’t want to lose that small advantage. “Fine,” she groused, slipping them off. She lined them up on the shoe rack, overly aware of her bare feet and the chipped blue polish on her toenails.

When she straightened and turned around, she found Ben staring intently at… her ass? His eyes instantly flicked up, and Rey decided she was imagining things. “So?” she asked. “Are you going to instruct me in proper artistic technique?”

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “It’s not about technique. It’s about making this collaboration more productive.”

Her jaw dropped. “More productive? You’re the one challenging everything I say.”

His rebuttal came instantly. “And you’re the one who refuses to listen to my input.”

“Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean your ideas are better.”

“It’s not about being better, it’s about—”

“Oh, sure, like you’re not just gagging to put me in my place—”

“Will you just _ shut up _ for a moment?”

Ben’s voice rose on the last sentence, and Rey was stunned into silence. She stared up at Ben—and shit, when had she gotten so close to him? They were standing a mere foot apart, both of their chests rising and falling rapidly. His brown eyes burned into hers, and she licked her lips.

His eyes dropped to her mouth before snapping back up. “Look,” he said in a ragged voice. “Clearly we… disagree about certain parts of the creative process. But I’m not trying to fight you.”

Rey scoffed. “Yes, it certainly seems that way.”

He pressed his lips together, inhaling deeply through his nose. “Fair point,” he finally said. “But I’m… I’ve been told I’m a little intense.”

Rey felt the urge to laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Ben drove a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, you’re no picnic yourself.” At her outraged look, he winced, and then more words tumbled out of his mouth. “Not that you’re awful or anything, that’s not what I mean. You’re not awful. But you’re intense, too. And you have a vision you don’t want to compromise on. And I just… can we just talk?”

Something in the plaintive way he said those last words made Rey bite off the rebuttal she’d been about to launch at him. She breathed in, then blew the air out between pursed lips. Ben wasn’t wrong about her being intense. And yeah, maybe she’d come here spoiling for a fight. Her opinions had been discounted for so much of her life, and now that she had something to defend, she’d developed a hair trigger. She could step back for a few moments.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

Ben swept his hand out, ushering her into the living room. Rey headed towards the couch, cognizant of the way her bare toes sank into the plush carpet. She was barefoot and alone in enemy territory, and her skin was already flushed hot with anger. She’d known this would be a terrible idea.

“Don’t sit yet,” he said when she made to plop onto the couch. “Come look at this.”

He was standing near one of the black-and-white photos. Rey joined him begrudgingly, though her interest was immediately piqued by the stark portrait of an older bald man with burn scars and pale, frightening eyes. The lighting was harsh, leaving black hollows beneath his cheekbones, and Rey felt a wave of revulsion just looking at the sneer on his thin lips. “Who is that?” she asked, turning to face Ben.

Ben didn’t quite meet her eyes. “My photography professor in college,” he said. “Dr. Snoke. The entire class was afraid of him. He thought I had the most potential, so he mentored me one-on-one.”

“He looks… mean.” It was too mild a word for how uncomfortable Rey felt looking at that photo.

“He was,” Ben said. “Snoke always mocked me for being too emotional about my photos, too sensitive to criticism. He told me true artistry relied on perfect technique, which you could only gain by staying distanced from your subject. And no matter how hard I tried to follow his guidance that semester, my photos got worse and worse.”

Rey watched, captivated by this glimpse into Ben Solo’s early years. He hadn’t always been a star in the photography world. Once, he’d been young and vulnerable, with a mentor who had tried to tear him down. “Why do you have a photo of him on your wall, then?” she asked.

“Our final assignment was to photograph him,” Ben said. His gaze was distant, like he was looking beyond the photo, rather than at it. “He sat in a chair in an empty room, and all we could do was play with light to make our photographs stand out. Twenty students, snapping the same face and pose. When it was my turn, he mocked me mercilessly for the first few minutes, telling me I’d never amount to anything, that he’d tried to build me into a successful photographer, but I was incapable of learning.” Ben’s mouth twisted. “And I felt this surge of pure rage. Utter hatred like nothing I’d ever felt before, burning me up. If I hadn’t had a camera in my hands, I might have strangled him.”

Rey sucked in a shocked breath. “Really?”

Ben grimaced. His eyes returned to her, though, some of the distance leaving his expression. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. But I couldn’t commit violence, so I did the only thing I could do. I stopped trying to photograph him like a man, and instead photographed him like a monster.”

Silence fell. Rey looked at the photograph again, seeing it with the clarity of context. Ben had hit just the right angle and added just the right contrast to make Snoke look like a figure out of nightmares, all sharp angles and cruelty. The image made Rey’s skin crawl for a reason. “How did he like the photo?” she asked.

Ben laughed. “He got quiet for a moment, then blustered on about my lack of talent. I think he gave me a C. But when I saw that photo, I knew everything he’d taught me was wrong. Distance wasn’t the key to making art. Emotion was.”

Rey was blown away by the story. There were more layers to Ben than she’d realized. He wasn’t just a cocksure jackass who thought he was better than everyone else; his talent had bloomed from a place of degradation and helplessness. “So this is the first true ‘Ben Solo’ photo,” she said, making air quotes with her fingers.

He nodded. “I hated the fucker, but I leave the picture up as a reminder to never lose that core understanding. That spark that makes my photos live.”

Rey moved to the next photo down. An old man, face weathered as a well-worn paper map, eyes full of terrible sadness.

“A family friend,” Ben said. “Taken a few months before he died of cancer.”

“I’m so sorry,” Rey said.

Ben shrugged. “It’s been years. Life moves on.”

The next photo was of a middle-aged couple laughing at each other in a sunlit kitchen. The woman’s nose was dotted with flour, and the man was grinning down at her like she was his entire world, his hands resting on her waist. “Who are they?” she asked, intrigued.

When she looked to Ben for the answer, he seemed tenser than normal. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and his shoulders curved in slightly. “My parents.”

Rey tried to remember what she knew about his parents. His mother was someone important—a senator, she thought. She didn’t know much about his father. “They look like they love each other very much.”

“They do,” he said. “When they can stand to be in the same room.”

But the cynicism in his tone didn’t match what Rey saw in the photo. The image shone with light, and even though it was black-and-white, she could envision the colors so well. She painted the gauzy curtains yellow in her mind, the mother’s apron blue. The light would be the warm spill of afternoon, glancing off the cut-glass goblets on the counter. It was a moment of joy, captured with love.

Ben didn’t look like he wanted to talk about it, though, so Rey moved on. She made her way down the line, silently admiring the images. He was right; these weren’t his commercial photos, the ones he took of rock bands or models. She felt like she was seeing something sacred.

The final image was a self-portrait, presumably captured with a tripod and timer. Ben stood with his back to the camera at the edge of a cliff, looking out over softly rolling hills that made Rey think of England. His dark hair lifted in a breeze, and he wore his usual unforgiving black, his hands in his pockets. He seemed disconnected from the landscape, a dark pillar against a cloud-dappled sky.

It was a lonely image. Rey’s heart ached looking at it.

“I think I understand,” she said. “Why it’s important to you to feel what you’re photographing.”

He stood next to her, his pose mirroring the photo. “That’s why I pushed you,” he said. “You’re positioning the models like dolls, rather than digging in to the emotional meat of the scene.”

That quickly, Rey was irritated again. “You don’t have to insult me because we have different processes.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult.” When Rey looked at him disbelievingly, he grimaced. “Okay, it came out like that. But what I mean is… maybe we can find the emotion of the scene together. You have this beautiful eye for color and staging, but our visions aren’t meshing at the moment because we’re coming from totally different places.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Was that… sort of a compliment?”

He ran a hand through his hair, and Rey watched those long, thick fingers tug on the dark strands. She’d seen him do that before when he was frustrated with something. “Yes, it was a compliment,” he said. “You know you’re talented.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, and Rey felt her cheeks flush at the praise. “I do,” she said. “But few people have ever told me that.”

“No?” Ben looked surprised, which was gratifying, she supposed, but also told her how little he knew about the uphill path for women in most industries.

“I came from nothing,” Rey said. “And that’s not a euphemism. I went to community college with $20 in my pocket, sleeping in an old beater of a car I found in a junkyard and fixed up. To say it was a struggle to get here would be a vast understatement.”

“Shit.”

Ben’s brown eyes held something far too close to pity, and Rey shifted uncomfortably. “Anyway,” she said, waving a hand as if wiping away the past. “That’s old news.”

“Don’t do that,” Ben said, stepping closer to her. He caught her wrist in midair, and Rey gasped. His hand was massive, his fingers enveloping her wrist and making her feel fragile as a twig. When his thumb gently rubbed over the veins on her inner wrist, Rey shuddered at the touch.

Ben looked as captivated as she felt. His eyes darted from her wrist to her face and back. Another pass of his thumb had her biting her lip. She wanted to moan, her pleasure utterly out of proportion to the simplicity of the touch.

“You try to hide,” Ben said, that torturous thumb stroking, stroking, stroking. “But I see you, Rey.”

She let out a strained laugh. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“You feel things,” he said, stepping even closer. Rey tipped her head up to look at him. Her pulse fluttered like the wings of a trapped bird. “Feel them deeply, too. But you’ve convinced yourself that shoving down those emotions and building a wall between yourself and the world is the best way to live.”

Rey didn’t like the way he was dissecting her. “You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I can see when someone’s holding on… holding back. You need to let go, Rey.”

Rey shook her head stubbornly. “I’m fine. We can’t all be hyper-emotional artists; some of us have to live in the world of profit and loss spreadsheets and office politics and client expectations.”

“Oh, bullshit,” he said.

Rey’s lips parted. “You’re telling me my personality is bullshit?”

“Your excuses are bullshit. Your job isn’t your personality.”

Rey yanked her wrist out of his grip. Part of her mourned the loss, but she felt too vulnerable while he was touching her. “So what?” she asked. “You want me to weep and rend my clothes on set? Turn into a blubbering mess in the name of authenticity?”

“No,” Ben said, fire in his eyes. “I want you to let me photograph you.”

Rey’s thoughts crashed to a halt. She blinked at him, trying to process the bizarre statement. “What?”

“Forget the Holdo shoot," he said. "We don’t need to worry about the third shot for a few days.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Rey said, “but I—”

“Already have it sketched out in your notebook, right?”

Rey opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“That’s what I thought,” Ben said, mouth turning up at one corner. “You’ve put it in a neat little box, the way you put everything in a neat little box. And you haven’t even asked me my opinion.”

“I gave you the brief weeks ago,” Rey said. “You could have shared your opinion then.”

“Over email?” He shook his head, raven locks shifting where they curled slightly at his neck. “I didn’t know what you were like to work with then.”

She huffed. “Difficult, is that it?”

“Yes," he said.

Rey bared her teeth at him. “Jackass.”

To her tremendous annoyance, he laughed. “Christ, you’re such a firebrand. But yeah, you’re difficult. I’m difficult, too.” He shrugged. “Most of the truly talented people I know are. But what we’re doing on the shoot—it’s like a dance. The balance between what we bring to the table is what gives the photos life. But right now, we haven’t found that balance.”

Rey briefly revisited her biting fantasy. If she chomped down hard enough on that plush lower lip, he wouldn’t feel like laughing at her anymore. “I fail to understand what this has to do with photographing me.”

“We’re going to learn each other’s languages,” he said. “Find out who we are together off set, how our creativity merges.”

_ Who we are together. _ Those words shouldn’t have sent a thrill through Rey, but they did. Ben Solo, one of the world’s most sought-after photographers, was standing so close to her she could feel the heat emanating from his skin, telling her he wanted to take pictures of her.

She wetted her lips. “What does photographing me entail?”

She could see the gleam of victory in his eyes. He knew he had her. Rey wanted more than anything to be able to tell him to stuff it, to walk away with her head held high and her pride intact, but her gut burned with a seething, urgent need to  _ know.  _ What he would do. What it would be like to be the sole focus of all that artistic intensity.

“You’ll come back here tonight,” he said. “Wear something you would wear when it’s just you. No corporate armor.” He gestured at her outfit when he said it.

Rey scowled. “How do you know I don’t dress like this when I’m alone?”

His raised eyebrows conveyed his opinion of that question. “Rey, I don’t think a single thing you show the world reflects who you really are.”

“Pompous ass,” she muttered. He was right, though. The Rey who existed alone in her studio apartment looked very different from the one who oversaw glamorous photoshoots. “What if what I wear at home is pajamas?”

“Then wear that.” His eyes trailed over her face. “No makeup. Hair however you want it.”

“I haven’t actually said yes,” Rey said.

Ben Solo smirked. “No, but you will.”

And fuck her life, because once again, he was right.


	4. Chapter 4

Rey paced back and forth in front of her closet, chewing her lip to the point of pain.

_Wear something you would wear when it’s just you._

When Rey was alone, she wore ratty pajama bottoms and a tank top with no bra. The white top had a streak of orange across it where she’d gotten careless with nail polish, and the armpits were yellowed, but it was the softest shirt she’d ever worn, and she loved it. The pajama bottoms were blue plaid, worn nearly threadbare by time and laundering.

She couldn’t wear that in front of Ben Solo.

He’d worked with the world’s sexiest models, photographing them in anything from haute couture to nothing at all. He’d seen more beautiful people up close than the horniest teenager could even dream of. Rey could _not_ wear her shitty pajamas in front of him.

She was already at a disadvantage with her meager chest and boyish figure. She was far from a bombshell, and that was before anyone looked at her up close. Her skin was peppered with scars from crawling over her stepfathers’ junkyard to find items to fix or pawn, and freckles dotted everything from her cheeks to her chest and shoulders.

How could Rey possibly compete against the other women Ben had photographed?

She stopped abruptly, staring blankly at the rainbow array of shirts and dresses in her closet. Why was she thinking about competing? Ben was a prick, albeit a compelling one, but it wasn’t like she was trying to seduce him. He’d be a pain in bed, anyway, probably as bossy and domineering as he was on set.

Rey shivered.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Rey fished it out to find a Reddit DM waiting for her.

> KyloRen: I think I fucked up.

Intrigued, Rey typed back.

> DesertFlower: Why? What happened?
> 
> KyloRen: I’m pathetic.
> 
> KyloRen: The woman, the one I can’t have. I’m so desperate for a single second of her attention that I’m forcing her to spend time with me. Like, the reasons are real - we work together and need to focus on a project - but she has no idea of my motivations. And I don’t know how I’m going to be near her without breaking.
> 
> KyloRen: Shit.

Apparently it was universal emotional crisis time. Knowing she wasn’t the world’s only disaster was comforting, in a way, though she felt bad for KyloRen.

> DesertFlower: It’s okay. Deep breaths.
> 
> DesertFlower: What do you mean, breaking?
> 
> KyloRen: I won’t be able to hide how I feel. And she’ll reject me, because of course she will. And having her know how I feel and be disgusted or just pity me… I don’t think I can take it.

She needed to be out the door in ten minutes, and she still hadn’t selected an outfit, but Rey sat on her bed and focused on KyloRen. He was her friend, and he needed help.

> DesertFlower: Do you know for sure she’ll reject you?
> 
> DesertFlower: You seem pretty harsh on yourself.

Rey’s phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from Ben Solo.

> Ben Solo: Are you wearing something comfortable?

She rolled her eyes. Of course he needed to check in and make sure she followed his directives.

> Rey: Yes, oh mighty overlord.

She wasn’t, though. She was still wearing her slacks and button-up, trapped in indecision.

> Ben Solo: Bring options.

She saluted sarcastically.

> Rey: On it.

Well, that at least made the decision a little easier. She left the phone on the bed, waiting for KyloRen to compose his thoughts, and scavenged through her drawers. A purple nightie, jeans, a yellow maxi skirt with a ruffled white blouse… and the ratty pajamas, because why the fuck not. After a moment’s consideration, Rey decided on the jeans and a Wonder Woman T-shirt. Cheeky and plausible as something she would wear at home, but the jeans highlighted her ass, and the shirt clung to her waist and chest. Not bombshell status, but definitely cute.

The phone vibrated as she wriggled into the jeans.

> KyloRen: I’m harsh on myself because I’m honest with myself. When I’m anxious, I act like a jerk so no one will realize. And she makes me anxious all the time. So she thinks I’m an asshole, and she’s right. I have no idea how to fucking talk to her, so I get way too intense.
> 
> DesertFlower: Why don’t you tell her that? That you’re an anxious person and you’re sorry for being rude?
> 
> KyloRen: That sounds way too reasonable.
> 
> Rey chuckled.
> 
> DesertFlower: I can’t exactly talk. I’m meeting up with that person I mentioned, the one I can’t tell if I have feelings for, and I’m going through outfits like a teenage girl before her first date.
> 
> KyloRen: Do you even read what you type? You obviously have feelings for them. (Him? Her?)

She stuck her tongue out at the phone.

> DesertFlower: Him. And it’s more complicated than that.
> 
> DesertFlower: I react to him physically, but I don’t know how much is just me being lonely and how much is him. He’s sexy, there’s no denying that--pretty sure he has a fan club--but we aren’t exactly friends. And he’s out of my league in so many ways. And I don’t know if I even want to be in his league? And even if I was in his league, I have no idea how to relax and let anyone in.
> 
> DesertFlower: It’s all very confusing.
> 
> KyloRen: Have you thought about being honest with him?
> 
> KyloRen: (Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it.)

Rey laughed.

> DesertFlower: Point taken.
> 
> DesertFlower: No, I think I will wallow in indecision and horny confusion.
> 
> KyloRen: Sounds like a plan. Count me in.

Rey put on her nice purple push-up bra, then pulled the shirt over her head. She admired herself in the mirror. Cute, funky, and mildly curvy. To further convince Ben that this was what she wore at home, she put her hair up in the messy three-bun style she’d chosen as her fashion trademark during university. It wasn’t actually fashionable, of course, and she didn’t wear her hair like that at work, but it was very good at keeping her hair out of her eyes.

> DesertFlower: Okay, I’m off. Wish me luck.
> 
> KyloRen: You don’t need luck. You need confidence.
> 
> DesertFlower: Pot, meet kettle.
> 
> KyloRen: Touche
> 
> KyloRen: Messes R Us, right?
> 
> DesertFlower: Right.

She smiled as she put the phone away. Just talking to KyloRen made her feel better. Even if tonight was a disaster, at least there was a sympathetic ear waiting for her when she got home.

#

“No,” Ben said the moment she stepped off the elevator.

Rey stopped in her tracks. “What?”

He was standing in his entrance to his apartment, muscled arms crossed over his chest. “The outfit,” he said. “You don’t wear jeans at home.”

Rey’s jaw dropped. “Excuse you, how would you know what I wear at home?”

He stalked towards her. Rey braced herself. He was just so _big,_ and he smelled really good, like he’d rolled around in pine needles and then bathed in expensive-sounding oils.

His hand hovered over her shoulder… and then he plucked her bra strap.

“Hey!” Rey said, jerking away from him. She rubbed the skin where the strap had snapped back. “What the fuck?”

“You’re wearing a bra,” he said flatly. “Are you telling me you seriously wear bras and tight jeans when you’re home alone relaxing?”

“They’re not that tight,” Rey grumbled. Except they were, and she knew it. “You know snapping bra straps is something twelve-year-olds do, right?”

In response, he turned and headed back towards his apartment. “Unless you have a change of clothes,” he called over his shoulder, “tonight is canceled.”

Rey followed him, already fuming. She hefted the duffel bag she’d brought with her. “I have multiple changes of clothes, you arrogant twat.”

When he looked back at her, it was clear he was suppressing a smile. “Is one of them something you’d actually wear at home?”

She rolled her eyes and shoved past him into the apartment. “Yes, in fact.” He didn’t like her jeans? Then fuck him, he could see her in all her messy, pajama’d glory. Let him try to make art out of _that._

The kitchen was to the left of the living room, so after kicking off her shoes, she headed down a small hallway to the right, flinging open doors as she went. Closet. Office. Bedroom. She shut the door on that last one quickly, lest she get too invested in learning what color sheets Ben slept on. Black, she’d wager. The final door was the bathroom, and she shut herself in to change.

God, what a bathroom. His tub was big enough for two people, with buttons and spouts and gizmos that indicated it could do a lot more than just hold water. His countertop was black marble streaked with white, and his towels were crimson and obscenely fluffy. Rey buried her face in one, inhaling deeply. It smelled delicious, too.

What would it be like to live like this? Rey did well for herself, but she was far from earning “world-famous photographer” money. With that tub and those towels, how could Ben Solo possibly be so grumpy?

She heard footsteps in the hallway, and Rey quickly disengaged from the towel and started rummaging through her duffel bag. From the sound of it, Ben had gone into his office, where she’d spied an elaborate computer setup. That must be the modern-day equivalent of his darkroom.

Rey changed into her pajamas, then examined herself in the mirror. Very quickly, it was obvious she’d made a terrible mistake. Her tank top was white, and without a bra, the darker circles of her nipples were visible beneath the fabric. At the thought of Ben seeing them, her nipples tightened.

A knock sounded at the door, and Rey jumped. “About ready?” Ben called.

“Just a minute!” Rey shoved her jeans and Wonder Woman shirt—RIP to a lovely outfit—back into the duffel bag. Then she stared at the mirror, calculating the best course of action. Was having Ben see her—now very pointy—nipples more or less humiliating than fleeing the apartment before he noticed?

Fleeing would definitely be worse. And fuck it, he’d antagonized her into this outfit, anyway. Rey took a deep breath and flung her shoulders back. He wanted her casual? He’d get her casual.

She marched out of the bathroom. Ben wasn’t in the hallway, so she headed towards the living room, where she found him setting up lights and reflectors. “Well,” she said, holding out her arms. “Here I am, in all my shabby glory.”

Ben turned… and promptly made a choking sound. His eyes were glued to her tits, and Rey’s cheeks burned. This was mortifying, but the sooner they got it out of the way, the better. “Everything all right?” Rey asked.

“Yes!” Ben said the word with a startling amount of vehemence. He returned his attention to the light, focusing intently on angling it just so. “Much more genuine,” he said. “Good… good choice.”

Rey shifted from foot to foot, digging her bare toes into the carpet. “Isn’t it a little grungy?” she asked.

“It’s fine,” he said. “And you’re comfortable in it, which is what I wanted.”

Rey could argue that she was not particularly comfortable. She crossed her arms over her chest, willing her boobs to calm down. “So what will I be doing in these photographs?” she asked.

Ben gestured to the leather couch, and Rey took a seat. She fidgeted nervously, knees pressed tightly together and arms still covering her chest. She could feel the heat of the lights against her exposed skin.

“You’re going to sit,” Ben said. “And look at the camera sometimes, but not always.”

“What a thorough brief.”

His lips quirked. “Forgive me for not having 80 color palettes already spread out for your perusal.”

“Will it be in color?” she asked curiously. He shot plenty of color photography, but black-and-white was his signature.

“Not today,” he said, which made Rey wonder if there was a _next time_ implied. “I find that genuine emotion shines through better in black-and-white photographs. There’s less to distract the eye.”

“So I have to look emotional.” Rey tapped her toes against the carpet, eyes dancing away from him. “About what? You want me to pretend to be sad?”

“I don’t want you to pretend anything.” He aimed the camera at her face, adjusting the exposure and focus. Rey bit her lip, body singing with nerves. “What are you feeling right now?”

“That if I wanted to talk about my feelings, I’d find a therapist?” At his stern look, she sighed. “I’ve never modeled before,” she said. “I’ll probably do it wrong.”

He clicked his tongue. “Impossible.”

“I’ve watched America’s Top Model. I know it’s harder than it looks. There’s all sorts of smizing and angles to keep track of. Like, what if my hands aren’t right? Or my eyes are too wide or not wide enough, or my posture isn’t dynamic enough?” She was starting to babble, but Ben had just taken a test shot of her, and it was really sinking in that one of the world’s most famous photographers was about to use all that talent to document her in her ratty pajamas. “And there’s the freckles,”” she said. “Loads of them. And my skin is probably going to look blotchy without foundation—”

“You look perfect,” Ben said, cutting her off. He took another picture, then pulled the camera away from his face to look at the digital display. “It’s normal to be nervous. Just pretend I’m not here.”

Rey repressed a hysterical laugh. “Ben, you’re like… eight feet tall and sticking a camera in my face. I don’t think I’ll be able to ignore you.”

“Relax your posture,” he said. “Take a few deep breaths.”

He sounded soothing, which was very strange, given her experience working with Ben Solo. He was brusque and commanding with the models on set, giving orders that he expected to be obeyed without hesitation. Now, though, he was talking to her like she was a spooked horse that might bolt at any second.

Honestly, Rey wanted to bolt. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. The shutter clicked as she blew out the breath. She cracked an eye open. “That’s not going to be flattering.”

“You’re not the art director here,” Ben said. “Leave the photography to the professional.”

“I’m a professional, too,” Rey argued. “And isn’t the point to learn how to work together?”

“The point,” he said, fiddling with more settings on the camera, “is to develop a rapport. An emotional understanding, free from the pressures of set. And right now, you’re my model, which means being good and doing what you’re told.”

Rey shivered. The order was obnoxious, but there was something dark and possessive about the way he spoke the words that hit her low in the belly. “I rarely do what I’m told,” she said, aiming for confidence but instead sounding breathless.

He took another photo. “Tonight you do.”

Rey shifted in her seat. A slight throb had started between her legs, and her nipples were acting up again, pressing insistently against her crossed forearms. Fuck, she should not find anything about this situation arousing. She tucked her legs up next to her on the couch, sinking further into the cushions.

“Arms down,” Ben said. “Relax.”

This was a terrible idea. Rey squeezed herself tighter. “It’s hard to relax when you’re taking pictures of me.”

“Why?” he asked, changing the angle he was shooting from.

“Why?” She laughed, casting her eyes towards the ceiling. “You’re famous, and I’m… well, not.”

“You don’t know how to be the center of attention, do you?” He moved around her restlessly, examining her from different angles. She still hadn’t dropped her arms, but he seemed to be biding his time. “You have no problem building beautiful scenes for other people, but you’ve never let anyone do the same for you.”

“No one’s ever wanted to do the same for me,” she said bluntly. “And this is hardly a beautiful scene. There are sweat stains on my shirt, for God’s sake.”

“It’s beautiful to me.”

Rey was stunned into silence. What did he mean by that? Was it just artsy speak—some variation on finding beauty in the mundane—or was there a chance that he found her…

 _No,_ she told herself. She would not start wondering whether or not Ben Solo found her beautiful. That way lay madness.

“Arms down,” he repeated. “Sit like you would on your couch at home. Stop looking at the camera.”

Rey took a deep breath in through her nose, then dropped her arms to her lap. Her face felt hot, and it was a relief to look away from Ben. She focused on his self-portrait across the room, trying—and failing—to ignore the fact that Ben could see her nipples through her thin white shirt.

He didn’t comment on that, which was good, since Rey probably would have decked him. He commented on other things, though, ordering small adjustments as he kept taking photos. Loosen the spine. Chin out. Head tilted to the right. Eyes down. Eyes up. Shoulders angled just so. Try not to look so constipated.

That last one got her attention. She whipped her head around, glaring at him as he took more photos. “I do not look constipated,” she said.

His lips twitched. “No, but it got a real emotion out of you.”

“What, you want a dozen photos of me looking pissed off?” His finger was still working the shutter button, so apparently the answer to that was yes. “Can’t I just smile or something?”

“Do you feel happy right now?” Ben didn’t lower the camera, and not having to look him in the eyes should have helped with her nerves, but instead, Rey was consumed with the knowledge that he was studying her closely through the lens, no doubt marking every small flaw.

“Not really,” she said. “It’s all a bit awkward.”

“Then don’t smile.” He took a few more photos, then sighed and lowered the camera. “This isn’t working. You’re too tense. I can see you thinking, and the whole point is to get you out of your head.”

“Oh, well,” Rey said, moving to get off the couch. “You gave it a try. Some people just aren’t meant to be mod-” She broke off with a gasp when Ben’s left hand landed on her bare shoulder, keeping her in place on the couch. His fingertips were slightly calloused, and when he flexed them, goosebumps raced over her skin.

Rey didn’t even realize he was still taking photos with the camera in his right hand, too caught up in the sparks of sensation shooting through her body. When he gently trailed his fingers down her upper arm, a shudder went through Rey’s entire body.

“There,” he said roughly.

Rey blinked away the haze of need. “There what?”

He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he crouched in front of her, holding the camera in his right hand while he adjusted a lock of her hair that had sprung free. He tucked it behind her ear, and Rey’s lips parted. She leaned briefly into the touch before she could stop herself, and the camera shutter clicked again.

Rey stiffened. “Are you even looking at what you’re photographing?” she asked. The camera was aimed at her, but Ben was pressing the shutter button without even looking at the display screen. His gaze was glued to hers, and she licked her lips at the fire in his eyes. He took another photo.

“I’m looking at you,” he said. “I think that was the problem—the distance. You know how to pretend for a camera, but you don’t know what to do when someone really _looks_ at you.”

She swallowed hard. “People look at me all the time,” she said, arguing for no reason other than to cover up what his intense stare was doing to her. Her lower belly felt tight, and the heavy throb of arousal had started again between her legs. Her skin felt hyper-sensitive, tingling where he’d touched her.

“They look at you,” he murmured, leaning closer. His eyes darted between hers. “But do they really _see_ you?”

Before Rey could muster up an argument, Ben trailed the fingers of his left hand down her neck, then gently stroked the dip of her collarbone. Rey sucked in a ragged breath, eyes half-closing with pleasure. His touch was light as the brush of butterfly wings, but the impact it had on Rey was massive and instantaneous. Her pulse raced, her skin flushed, and her cunt clenched around nothing.

Ben’s eyes were growing heavy-lidded, too, and spots of pink burned on his cheeks. He chewed his plush lower lip, making it redder. Rey’s eyes dropped to his mouth, and she wondered what it would feel like against her skin. Would he be gentle or rough? Was he the type to take his time learning every inch of his partner or the type who overwhelmed with sudden passion?

Both, she imagined. All that intensity would be explosive in the bedroom, but he was also an artist with an eye for detail and a controlling streak a mile wide. He would be meticulous about taking his partner apart.

She didn’t need to think about what Ben was like in the bedroom. She wasn’t even sure why he was touching her now, but she couldn’t find the words to tell him to stop. Frankly, she never wanted him to stop. This was the most she’d been touched in years, and she couldn’t remember a simple caress ever feeling so good.

Ben flattened his palm against her upper chest. The tips of his fingers curved over her shoulder while his thumb played at the base of her neck. Fuck, he was so _big._ His hand would span her entire abdomen, and an image of those long fingers sliding inside her made Rey whimper softly. She bit down on her lip to suppress the sound, but Ben’s nostrils flared like a predator scenting prey.

His thumb slid to press softly against the side of her neck. “Your pulse is racing,” he murmured as he stared deep into her eyes. Rey felt like he was looking beneath her skin, that clever, intense mind cataloguing every feeling and thought that flashed across her face. His finger worked relentlessly on the shutter button, taking image after image.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Rey felt like she was drowning—in the scent of him, in the sound of his voice, in the feel of his fingers pressed against her skin. She couldn’t control her breathing or her heart rate, and with Ben so close, there was no way he could miss what he was doing to her.

Panic filled her chest. If he found out how she felt, she would lose all power in their fraught partnership. He’d feel free to walk all over her, maybe even dismiss her as a starfucker trying to get a piece of his wealth and talent. As Ben lifted his hand slightly, Rey surged to the side, trying to launch herself off the couch before she could embarrass herself further.

Unfortunately, he had just moved his hand to the side as well, and Rey’s panicked lurch pressed her breast into his palm. She jerked away, but she couldn’t bite down fast enough to stop the cry that burst from her lips.

“Fuck,” Ben breathed.

Mortified, Rey tried to squirm past him, but he caged her in with his arms, dropping the camera to the cushion next to her. His palms planted on the leather seat beside her hips. “Where are you going?” he demanded. There was a feral edge to his expression.

“I-I need to leave,” Rey stammered.

Ben narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit.”

“This is mortifying.” She burned all over, and her embarrassment was only rivaled by her arousal.

“What’s mortifying?” he asked. “That you showed me something genuine?”

She shook her head. “You don’t know what’s genuine or not.”

“Don’t I?” He moved both hands to her waist, fingers sliding under the hem of her T-shirt to brush the skin just above her waistband. Rey quivered again. She was right; his hands practically wrapped around her. “You can lie, Rey, but your body knows the truth.”

“Fuck off,” she said in a shaky voice.

His fingers flexed on her waist. “Lie down on the couch.”

Rey opened her mouth to argue, but Ben tipped her backwards before she could speak. “Hey!” she complained as her back hit the cushion. “You don’t just get to manhandle me.” The leather was cool under her back, creaking as she wriggled—towards him, away from him, she wasn’t sure.

Ben climbed onto the couch, kneeling between her feet and taking up the camera again. He took another photo of her, looking up her body. “Much better,” he said. “Not nearly so stiff.”

Rey struggled onto her elbows, blowing at a ribbon of hair that had fallen out of her buns. “I thought I was supposed to be sitting and sometimes looking at the camera,” she snapped.

“That wasn’t real,” he said, taking more photos. “This is.”

“Oh, yes, getting horizontal is the first step to artistic authenticity.” Her sarcasm came out shaky, though. Her entire body hummed with a sick, burning excitement.

Ben scooted forward, and Rey hitched her knees up automatically, thighs trembling as he knelt between them. He was looking through the camera viewfinder again, which was a small comfort. She didn’t know if she’d be able to handle the intensity of his stare right now. “Arch your back a little,” he said as he aimed the lens down at her.

“What is this, a pinup shot?” she asked.

He made a low growling sound that curled her toes. “Just do it.”

Rey did, feeling all kinds of foolish as she arched her spine off the cushion. Her breasts strained against the shirt, and Rey turned her head to the side, too embarrassed to look at Ben directly.

His hand settled on her abdomen, and Rey jerked, coming off the cushion a little. “Yes,” Ben said roughly, the sound accompanied by the shutter click. “Don’t hold it in.” His touch was warm through the thin fabric of her shirt, the pressure grounding.

“Hold what in?” Rey gasped, squirming against his palm. How had she gotten here, on her back with Ben Solo pinning her down and wetness gathering between her thighs? Things had spiraled out of control so quickly.

“You like being touched,” Ben said. “And you don’t know how to handle it.” _Click click click_ went the camera, that round glass lens taking in every second of her collapse.

Shivers raced over her skin, and she shifted, hips rocking instinctively. “I know how to handle it just fine. I… _unh.”_ His thumb had grazed her waistband, dipping just beneath the fabric, and a flood of pleasure spilled over her. Her stomach trembled as he stroked the soft skin of her lower belly, the touch gentle but devastating. Holy God, how did this feel so good?

“Does anyone ever touch you, Rey?” he asked, soft as smoke. “Or do you keep this need locked away, too?”

She was dying, about to fall apart from nothing but his thumb on her stomach. Her cunt pulsed, and she clenched, imagining having him inside her. His fingers, his tongue, his cock… It had been so long.

She didn’t realize she’d whispered those last words out loud until he stopped photographing for long enough to nod at her. His eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, the pupils blown wide. “A long time for me, too.” He shifted his weight, leaning forward as he rotated his wrist to replace his thumb with the slide of long fingers down her lower belly. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

She should, but she couldn’t speak. She just stared up at him, eyes wide and desire pulsing through her veins.

“Say it,” he repeated, voice cracking. “If you want me to stop, say it.”

His fingers wormed under the hem of her underwear, stretching the fabric, and Rey could do nothing but pant and whimper. _Just say it,_ she told herself as the pads of his fingers ghosted over the edge of her pubic hair. _Tell him to stop._

But she didn’t want him to stop.

“Fuck!” she cried out at the first brush of his finger over her clitoris.

Ben groaned softly. He was breathing as heavily as she was. She couldn’t see his eyes, since he'd lifted the camera again, but she could see the tension stringing his body tight, and a bulge pressed against the front of his black jeans. He was worked up, too. “That’s it,” he whispered as Rey’s hips rocked towards the touch. “Let go.”

Her head thrashed on the cushion, half denial and half the restless need to move. His hand was hovering just above where she needed it, his fingers resting mere centimeters away from her clit. Could he guess how wet she was?

He finally rubbed her clit again, and Rey keened. Pleasure sharp as lightning shot through her, and words tumbled out of her mouth without conscious thought. “Please,” she heard herself say. “More, please…”

“Jesus fuck,” Ben said hoarsely.

There should have been warning alarms blaring in her mind, but Rey was beyond rational thought. Her focus had narrowed to the relentless circling of his thumb and the fire he was building in her lower belly.

His fingers slid down further, reaching her soaked entrance. “Shit,” he said as he stroked her. “You’re so wet, sweetheart.”

 _Not your sweetheart,_ she wanted to say. “Oh, God,” she said instead.

 _Click click click._ He was still photographing her, though the camera shook in his right hand. It must have been awkward and uncomfortable, holding it with only one hand, but he didn’t seem to care. Maybe she should be outraged, but her arousal only ramped up higher.

One finger sank inside her, and Rey cried out. It was so much thicker than her own. Longer, too. When he crooked it and dragged over her inner wall, Rey’s vision grew blurry. Ben touching her felt better than she ever could have imagined.

“That’s it,” Ben said as she gasped. “Let me do this for you. Even if it’s just this, let me do this.”

She couldn’t make sense of his pleading words and tone. All she could focus on was the steady build of pressure and heat, the way her muscles were tensing in anticipation of orgasm. She was close, spiraling higher and higher with every caress of his finger over her G-spot. His thumb rubbed roughly over her clit, and it wasn’t the most coordinated touch, but the combination was going to wreck her. “Ohh,” she moaned, tipping her head back and biting her lip. Just a little more…

“Look at me,” he ordered roughly. “Look at me when you come.”

Rey’s eyes flew open as the orgasm finally broke. She twitched and jerked, crying out as her cunt pulsed rhythmically and heat washed over her. The orgasm stretched out almost unbearably long, a flood of sharp, clenching, hot, _glorious_ bliss. Ben was muttering something as his fingers continued working mercilessly between her thighs, but she couldn’t process anything but the occasional “fuck” grunted in that dark midnight voice. Each click of the shutter seemed to coincide with a throb of pleasure.

Finally, the orgasm ebbed, and Rey collapsed back onto the couch, limbs trembling. She’d never come like that in her life. She groaned as Ben slid his finger out of her. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, and when he sucked them clean, she shuddered from head to toe. She closed her eyes, unable to move or think just yet. She drifted in the dark and quiet, letting the final quivers shake their way loose from her oversensitized body.

When she finally opened her eyes again, Ben was looking at the camera’s display screen. His jeans were still tented, but he seemed more interested in the images than in taking care of his erection. His expression had turned triumphant. “God, these photos are going to be beautiful,” he said.

It was like a bucket of cold water had been poured over her. Rey stiffened. “You’re keeping them?”

“Obviously,” he said, still clicking through the images. “They’re exquisite.”

She struggled into a seated position. Her buns were destroyed, and her hair fell in wild tangles around her shoulders. Being photographed had felt sexy in the moment, but now, seeing Ben clicking through images of her orgasm with glee, rather than talking to her or cuddling or fuck knows what else her lonely heart had expected, she felt dirty. “Does portrait photography not pay the bills?” she asked acidly. “You need a side hustle in pornography?”

He looked up at that, forehead creased. “I’m not going to sell them. The images are all waist-up, anyway. It was about capturing your expressions, your emotions.” His lips tilted in that crooked smile, except now it struck Rey as more of a smirk. “You certainly let go.”

Rey scrambled to her feet, legs trembling. Yeah, she had let go—by coming all over Ben Solo’s hand. Ben Solo, who was famous and rich and handsome and probably had hundreds of women willing to get on their knees for him. Ben Solo the asshole who shouted at her on set and discounted her opinions.

And she’d just let him finger her and photograph it.

An awful thought struck. “Do you do this with them?” she asked, voice trembling.

His brows drew together. “With who?”

“The models.” Rey’s throat felt thick. “All those beautiful models you get to photograph day in and day out. You probably have a private collection, right?”

He stood up, setting the camera aside. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“I don’t know.” Rey rubbed her eyes, which had started to prickle alarmingly, before facing him again. “I don’t know what the fuck to think of you, Ben.”

He flinched. “You certainly knew what to think of me five minutes ago,” he said nastily. “Apparently you have a short memory.”

Rey’s stomach felt knotted, and hot shame washed over her from head to toe. “What the fuck do you want me to say?” she demanded. “Earlier today you hated me, and now you’ve fingered me for your art or some shit, and I’m supposed to… what? Praise your genius and tell you you’re right, that all I needed was to loosen up a bit and do exactly what you say?” She let out a bitter laugh. “What a lesson in collaboration. Give the little lady an orgasm, see if that shuts her up.”

He stood still as a statue, face frozen in an expression that frightened Rey in its very blankness. “Go home, Rey,” he finally said.

She sucked in a breath that sounded more like a sob. “That’s it?”

He turned away from her, stalking towards the window and cracking open the blinds. The lights of the city gleamed below, red and orange and yellow like tiny fires in the night. “Yeah,” he said without turning around. “I think that’s it.”

Rey wouldn’t cry in front of him. That would be admitting weakness, and she’d done enough of that today. So she scooped up her duffel bag and headed for the front door. Her hands were shaking so badly she had trouble putting on her shoes, but Ben thankfully kept looking out the window. He didn’t see when the first tear trailed down her cheek, nor when she looked back at him from the doorway.

The click of the door closing behind Rey felt like an ending. Of what, she couldn’t say. Something that could have been, maybe. A lonely soul’s delusion.

Rey waited for the elevator, far too aware of the wetness in her underwear, the ache in her heart, and the stupid, naive wish that maybe Ben would run out of his apartment to stop her from leaving.

 _I don’t do this with anyone else,_ he might say.

_This wasn’t about proving a point._

_I genuinely like you._

But Ben’s door stayed shut, and the elevator dinged, and then Rey was stepping inside.

She cried all the way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IDIOTS TO LOVERS! I REPEAT, THIS IS IDIOTS TO LOVERS!
> 
> 😬 Sorryyy


End file.
